Fallen Words on Deaf Ears
by thecanadian13
Summary: While Sherlock is believed to be dead, John reveals information to Molly about Sherlock's feelings towards her. Things are destined to change upon Sherlock's return to Baker Street. Season 3 AU. Tom does not exist and never will.
1. Chapter 1

Molly adjusted her white lab coat, pulling on the left shoulder slightly to loosen it from her button up sweater underneath, as she entered the locker room at Barts. Her body moving through the room casted dark shadows against the pasty walls and color blocked lockers. The hours of daylight had long passed and her tiring from the monotonous routine of work provoked a sudden gasp when his dark curls and light skin, almost as pale as the walls, flecked into view on the mirror in front of her.

A modest smile graced her lips, the first one in what felt like months, but her words stuck to the back of her throat, unwilling to be heard.

"It's been a while, Molly Hooper," he spoke –his words cutting through the sterile hospital air like water through ice.

"Yeah-yes it has been," she replied trying to keep a steady tone while the sound of John's words bounced around her mind like a tennis ball in a frictionless vacuum. "More than that really, but I guess time flies when you are off saving the world."

"Odd comparison," Sherlock noted to himself before addressing Molly again. "But yes, I do suppose I was saving our world from Moriarty's network –parts of it perhaps."

"But that is finished with now, yeah? Everything is better now, all safe and sound, eh?" Molly asked somewhat rhetorically. Her eyes lit up a bit and she forced a smile, one she had forced many times over. Almost as many times as Sherlock had forced his own. The key was to look hopeful and Molly was nothing shy of optimistic.

"Yes," Sherlock drawled, hesitating for a second as he grimaced inwardly. "To my knowledge, the last of Moriarty's connections was disabled in Serbia no thanks to Mycroft," the last bit came out like a bitter taste on the tongue, but out it came none the less.

Molly pushed onward, ignoring Sherlock's reproachful stance. "Must be at least a bit pleased to be back, though. Less danger I suspect, but still interesting if you're lucky."

"I can only hope," Sherlock replied tutting to himself as he stared aimlessly beyond Molly. "Must be off though. I have a certain detective inspector to visit before he expects my presence."

"Yes. I see," Molly whispered to herself. "Let's hope for anything interesting, at least for Mrs. Hudson's sake of course."

* * *

><p>Four Months Earlier...<p>

John leaned over the marbled edge of Mary's kitchen countertop as he looked up hazily at Molly. She was balancing a fairly full glass of red wine, her nails clinking against the base, as it teetered back and forth.

"Is it genuinely wrong for me to be genuinely happy right now?" He asked Molly while reaching for the bottle to fill up his own.

Even in her less than sober state, Molly reacted quickly and pulled away the House Red knowing John would thank her in the morning.

John stood -or more so leaned there still pouting.

Molly sighed, choosing her words carefully. "There's nothing wrong with being happy about your relationship with Mary."

"I know, it just doesn't seem fair. Why do I get my happy ending when he doesn't!" John shouted out to an omnipresent being while spinning in a circle.

It was obvious who he was. He was the man that had saved the lives of all of his friends by faking his suicide. He was the man who had left his friends for almost two years already with no sign of a reappearance. He was also the man that trusted her the most. And it scared her almost as much as it thrilled every part of her being.

"It was his decision," Molly replied like a broken record, "I'm sure he had his motives. He made the jump. He was Sherlock Holmes for christ sake! He had everything figured out, one step ahead all the time."

John had zoned out halfway through her spiel and was talking to himself. "Where's your flipping happy ending now, huh? It never happened. It can't happen. Oh, you selfless bastard."

"John!" Molly placed her hand delicately over his shoulder to usher him to calm down.

"Sorry, Molly. It just feels so wrong. It could have ended so differently. The four of us would have been happy. Why couldn't he just do something for himself for once."

Molly paused mid sip nearly choking. "We weren't happy John. You don't know what would have happened. Things couldn't have continued on like that forever. At least the four of us couldn't have. It was high time I moved on anyway. You can't for one second believe that our friendship was functional."

John rolled his eyes, nearly making himself dizzy, but held on to make his point. "I'm not talking about before Molly." John scoffed rather loudly, producing a very effeminate hiccup in the process. "I'm talking about after, if there ever would have been an after…"

"After what exactly?" Molly questioned setting the empty glass down on the countertop.

"After that bloody idiot got over his hero complex and gave you a good snog." Molly needed another glass. "I mean, I told him right out multiple times that the staring and ogling from a distance wasn't healthy. But no, he absolutely wouldn't give himself anything. He wanted you to be safe. Apparently to him that meant going about like a petulant child, picking on the pretty girl in the school yard. Well, you know what? He lost his chance. He will never have his happy ending. And it just doesn't seem fair."

"He likes-liked me?" Molly asked, obviously not gathering much of anything else from John's soap box speech.

"Well yeah. Course. More than that I'd guess, although we didn't talk about it much… You alright there Molls? You're a bit pale."

"mhm," she replied turning away from John to hide the rush of emotions overcoming her face. One look at her now, she feared, would give the secret away.

She excused her self promptly following the conversation and wished for the billionth time over that she had someone to talk about this with. Of course, this would mark the first time she wanted to squeal over the situation with excitement as well as frustration.


	2. Chapter 2

The game was far too tedious and going no where, Sherlock reiterated to himself upon hearing her footsteps enter the room. He needed a distraction.

"You wanted to see me?" Molly asked as she stepped inside his flat, her long pink and black scarf hanging dangerously close to the ground.

"Yes," Sherlock affirmed as he turned on the spot. "Molly."

"Yes?" She barely got out before he continued.

"Would you like to," Sherlock took a step closer to her –his hands buried in the depths of his dressing gown pockets. "Solve crimes?"/ "Have dinner?" They both asked simultaneously.

The two looked on skeptically, puzzled over the other's question. Molly's eyebrows furrowed while a barely audible "oh" left her lips and Sherlock looked away, taking a few seconds to process the information.

Something was off –no not off, different, about Molly Hooper. Her usual mannerisms fell well short of confident, but her smile and presence today were, dare he say, bold. It had indeed been a long time since he'd faked his suicide and vanished from his friends' lives, but people, as he learned many years ago, did not change. And in this case, that person was Molly. So it was only natural to assume that if the person hadn't changed, the situation did.

"What have you been up to?" Sherlock asked. His words waded slowly out of his mouth as if testing the waters before embarking.

"Oh uh," Molly looked genuinely surprised at the question and her previously sour expression softened as she mentally filed through her recent memories, leaving be the ones not suitable for the current conversation. "Work." That was a bit too dull. Of course she was working, it was fairly obvious to anyone with a brain. Unfortunately, the only thing that kept popping up in her mind was the vivid memory of a highly intoxicated John confessing Sherlock's wanting of her. "Spending time with John and Mary, you've met her I assume?"

He nodded. The feigned countenance of curiosity still sitting peculiarly on his face.

"Been doing a bit of reading too, mainly novels," Molly inwardly face-palmed at how mundane she must appear to him. "My research on the cytokine TNF alpha and it's role during inflammatory activities brought on by brain injury got published last July in one of the top Scientific Journals in the country," she continued with heightened enthusiasm.

Sherlock did not appear fazed. It was as if the information came his way, but his ears did not bother to process the sounds.

"I had been working on that research prior to your fall," Molly added in.

"Awh, right. Yes. I seem to recall an abundant use of swearing during our shared times at the lab. It's good to know you finally made progress within that line of research."

Molly fought the urge to look away, but stared abrasively back at Sherlock. "Oh, believe me. I wasn't swearing over the experiment if I remember correctly."

Sherlock's mouth twitched slightly and he swung around to take a seat in his chair with his dressing gown flaring out like a cape behind him.

"I was hoping to tackle some cases today. Most will likely barely reach a 6, but do keep your fingers crossed, we might get lucky."

"So you're still not talking to John?"

"Why do you say that?"

"I'm here and he's not."

Sherlock cocked his head to the right. "Yes, I suppose so. But I invited you here and not him for a reason."

"And that reason would be?" Molly felt alarmingly close to the line that she did not cross with Sherlock, but her nerves kept egging her on.

Sherlock bit his bottom lip with his teeth before releasing a loud clicking noise. He truthfully did not know that reason yet either, but assumed that her response to his anecdotal knowledge would not pass in her current inquisitive state.

"What do you think, missing bank account funds or missing pen pal's letters first?"

* * *

><p>Searching through his mind palace and walking down stairs appeared to be the limit of Sherlock's multitasking as he stopped at the 3rd floor landing in Howard the train guy's flat. Molly turned back around, aware that the echo of footsteps behind her had stopped, and began to reascend them when Sherlock spoke suddenly at a frantic pace.<p>

"The journey between those stations usually takes five minutes. That journey took ten minutes –ten minutes to get from Westminster to St. James Park. So I'm going to need maps –lots of maps, older maps, all the maps."

"Right..." Molly replied as he brushed by her leaving a whiff of old cigarette smoke and Irish Spring soap behind him.

"Fancy a drink? I know a nice pub in this area."

"What?" Molly asked. Sherlock continued down to the second floor landing, rattling casually as if they were still talking about train carriages –no cars.

"I know a fantastic little pub just a ten minute car ride from here. The owner always undercharges me."

"Clear him of a murder charge or something?"

"No –helped him put up shelves," Sherlock muttered as he grinned slyly to himself.

"Sherlock," Molly hung back a bit a few steps up from the consulting detective.

"Hmm?" He replied not catching on to her skepticism over the drinks invitation. It would be entirely accurate to conclude that he never did that sort of thing.

"What was today really about?" Molly asked. "You said it wasn't about John earlier, what did you mean?"

"I was saying thank you," Sherlock looked at Molly with no hint of a smile or twinkle of an eye, yet it appeared more sincere than anything he had ever said to her before. He paused, trying to decide if his split-second answer was truly the reason he had called her up earlier, or if there was more to it.

"For what?" Molly replied as she approached him still standing a few stairs up from the first floor.

"Everything you did for me." It was as much of a realization for himself as it was for Molly.

Her right hand curved around the bannister as she passed him and she tried, with all her might, not to do anything rash. "It's okay. It was my pleasure." She hid her blush with her other hand and was about to make her way to the front door when a warm hand came to rest on her left shoulder –the ends of some of his fingers brushing lightly against her neck where the long scarf did not cover.

"I mean it though," he assured her with a tinge of uneasiness in his voice, knowing how many times he had manipulated her with compliments and over played cordiality.

"I don't mean _pleasure. _I mean, I didn't mind. I wanted to," she tripped over her words, completely unaware of the doubt and anxiety running through Sherlock's mind, too concerned with her own embarrassment over the double entendre.

Molly gulped when she noticed that his eyes hadn't left hers and he had somehow in the course of her rambling, stepped down to the floor with his hand still upon her shoulder.

"Moriarty slipped up. He made a mistake. Because the one person he thought didn't matter at all to me was the one person that mattered the most. You made it all possible."

Their eyes flickered back and forth between each other and arbitrary blank spots on the walls around them. Somewhere during his speech Molly had forgone the essential need to breathe and was trying to catch her breath without making a scene when Sherlock finally released his grip on her shoulder. His hands had become clammy –an accursed biological response he closely associated with their dilated pupils and increased heart rates.

"The pub then?" He asked breaking the enveloping silence.

"Mhm," she agreed hiding a small smile that just wouldn't leave her. "Are we having dinner then?"

"Drinks," he replied, insinuating the plural form of the word. "I don't eat during a case."

"You have a case then now?" She asked glancing back up the stairs to where they'd just been.

"It appears that _we_ do."


	3. Chapter 3

The door to the black cab swung open nearly hitting Molly in the face as Sherlock ushered her inside.

"Aye, Sherlock. That's my face," she complained.

He made no attempt to answer, but awkwardly protected her face with his hands as she ducked in from the curb outside Howard the train guy's flat. Molly shot Sherlock a puzzled look before strapping herself in on the left side of the back seat.

The cabbie up front waited for an address before punching it into his GPS and driving away, all while humming a song to himself.

Molly waited in silence, apart from the humming up front, as Sherlock sat stoically beside her watching the buildings pass outside the window.

"So all the... threats have been taken care of?" Molly asked while trying to be discreet despite the fact that the cabbie seemed to be paying no attention to his riders in the back seat.

"Hmm?" Sherlock hummed before fully processing her answer and replying before she had time to clarify. "Oh yes, that. Moriarty is no longer a prominent concern of mine."

Molly winced at the sound of Jim's name and laughed inwardly at how heedless Sherlock could be with sensitive topics. "So we are all safe now, I gather?"

"Safe?" Sherlock chuckled to himself –one of the few times he actually displayed that emotion usually coincided with everyone else looking dumbfounded around him.

"Yes, safe," Molly reiterated. "As in, none of the lives of your friends and family are in danger." Her patience was growing thin with his inability to carry out a normal conversation.

Suddenly Sherlock soured at Molly's apparent temper. "We are all in danger, Molly. There is an eminent attack by a secret terrorist organization in the works right now. How could that ever mean that _you_ are safe_? " _

"I'm sorry," Molly added looking down at her lap where her seat belt had twisted in her frenzy to put it on earlier. "I wasn't aware."

The cab pulled to a stop outside of an old-fashioned converted pub and Sherlock handed the cabbie a few bills from his pocket, not bothering to check the meter before doing so. The cabbie shot Sherlock a confused look eyeing the dark haired man and the petite woman beside him. Molly was worried that either a: the cabbie would ask about their heated discussion or b: Sherlock would deduce the cabbie and explain how he somehow knew the total for their journey by observation. But neither occurred and the cabbie turned back around as the two exited the cab.

Molly should have been relieved but something about Sherlock's exchange with the cabbie unsettled her. Since when does Sherlock skip over an opportunity to show off his intelligence?

"Sherlock," Molly stopped him from entering the pub with an outstretched hand barely grasping the corner of his coat sleeve. "What's wrong?"

He sent a look back at her, stone cold and piercing, and was about to pull himself free from her hold on him when he sighed, giving into another side of himself. "You'll never be safe Molly. Not as long as our interactions continue and probably long after that as well. I have grown accustomed to you and any enemies of mine with at least a hint of intelligence will catch that and could possibly take advantage of that."

Molly nodded along, hoping she understood where this was going. But then Sherlock stopped as if his answer was sufficient enough. But it wasn't; for Molly anyway.

"You can't walk on egg shells forever, Sherlock," she said bluntly. He was no longer held back by his coat and she was no longer keeping him from moving away, but something stopped Sherlock from continuing on. "Like you said before, _this _will never end, so why can't you be at least a little bit selfish considering everything you have done for others? The hero gets a few indulgences once in a while Sherlock. Why can't you give in to yours?"

"I..." Sherlock sputtered. It was as if Molly possessed an invisible hold on him that he just could not pull away from, no matter how much he wanted to ignore it. His thoughts were retreating and pulling him away from reality into his mind palace.

His Molly, the one that always existed for him in his mind palace closely mimicked the real Molly standing two feet away from him now. Her arms were crossed and she stood there, in an empty room, tapping her foot, waiting.

"Well?" Mind palace Molly asked. "Why haven't you _indulged_?" A coy grin spread across her face and Sherlock rolled his eyes at how cheeky Molly could be sometimes –well I guess his mind palace Molly that is.

"I don't know," Sherlock replied. It was the truth or a stretch of the truth. He had no logical explanation of why he hadn't _indulged._ Molly had made a decent point. If they were always going to be in danger by association, why couldn't he _associate _more with her. The alternative would be blocking her from his life completely and he would never possess the will power to do that.

"You're afraid," Mind palace Molly said out of the silence.

"No," sherlock shot down the statement quickly, but he couldn't help but process the possibility.

"Like you said, relationships aren't your area."

"They could be," Sherlock retorted as mind palace Molly proceeded to leave through a set of doors resembling the lab at St. Barts.

"Yeah, okay," Sherlock heard her say sarcastically as she receded.

"I can!" Sherlock called back.

"You can?" Molly asked somewhat shocked as she tried to hide a small smile creeping onto her face.

Sherlock caught the change in attitude and realized he had uttered his last statement out loud. "I can protect the ones I care about, Molly. I have the most surveillance a brother of the British government can gravel for, looking over John and his new girlfriend... as well as Lestrade among _others_."

Molly shook her head catching onto him side tracking the conversation. She was about to retort when he turned away from her and stalked into the the pub. He waited for her at the door, holding the dark grenadilla door open for her.

But before Sherlock could call her forward, Molly had lost her patience and already decided that spending an afternoon drinking copious amounts of alcohol in Sherlock's presence was not wise.

"Molly!" He called out after she was already a good ten meters away from him. "Molly! Where are you going?" He sounded annoyed as if he were calling to a child that had run off.

"I just remembered some things I must get done," she replied sharply. Molly caught one last glimpse of the baffled look on his pale face before departing for good.

His hand, still resting against the dark wooden door slipped idly down the outside and came to a rest dangling beside his Belstaff coat. His confused look fell as well and was replaced with a countenance of aggravating regret. He retreated to his palace once again to center himself, but found his place of solace invaded my his mind palace Molly. He could hear her teasing him between laughs, "Told you it wasn't your area."

With much disdain, Sherlock entered the pub, where he planned to replicate one of the many inebriated nights from uni, even if it was only mid-day.


	4. Chapter 4

"Hello?"

"Hi, Mary?" Molly asked into the receiver of her old mobile.

"Yeah. This is she," Mary replied. A ruffling sound was heard in the background before Mary came back to the phone. "Is this Molly? Sorry, I don't have your number saved on my phone."

"Yes, it is. I was looking for John, but I can't get a hold of him."

Mary stepped away from the phone once more to speak to her fiancé. "John, it's for you... He is on his way out the door right now, actually. Is it important?" Mary asked still on the phone.

"I just needed to speak with him for a bit, but if he is busy... it's fine really."

"Is everything okay, Molly?"

"Yeah, yeah, everything is great," Molly tried to sound confident in her answer, but it came out slightly jarred.

"John is heading over to Baker Street. He says if you are close by, you can meet him there."

"Baker Street..." Molly spoke more to herself than Mary.

"Yeah, he suspects he left some notes there and honestly," She brought her voice down to a whisper. "He can't avoid Sherlock forever.

"Yes..." Molly muttered. "Can't avoid him forever. Tell him I'll meet him there in fifteen. I'm just finishing up with a late lunch now."

"Okay, great," Mary replied to Molly before turning away again and shouting "She'll meet you there," over her shoulder at John.

The ever familiar black door to 221b Baker Street was cracked open as Molly approached the flat from the tube where she'd gotten off. Just the site of it elicited an unnerving feeling in the pit of her stomach.

She heard Mrs. Hudson's voice carrying out the door before she even saw John or the older housekeeper –land lady.

"Oh, John," she cooed as he caught sight of Molly entering through the front door. "You really need to make amends with him.

"I have, I have Mrs. Hudson," he remarked before smiling faintly at Molly and giving a shy wave.

Mrs. Hudson shook her head, not completely believing John, for good reason, before placing her tea towel over her shoulder and greeting Molly formally.

"How are you Molly dear?"

"I'm fine. Just fine," Molly replied, trying to skirt herself away from anymore questions.

'That's nice," She replied. Molly eyes crinkled slightly. Was that sarcasm laced intricately into Mrs. Hudson's reply or was she just imagining things? She couldn't still be upset that Molly had been a part of his fake suicide, could she?

"Well, we'll just go on up then," John spoke breaking the uncomfortable silence.

"He's not here right now though dears," Mrs. Hudson called out as they ascended the stairs.

"Really?" Molly and John replied simultaneously for different reasons. John because of the simple assumption that if not on a case, Sherlock never left his flat. And Molly for the much less typical guess, that Sherlock must have gone home after their canceled lunch date –well drinks.

''Yes, 'fraid so," she confirmed. "But you can go on up if you'd like. You did say you were here to collect some of your things?"

John nodded before turning towards Sherlock's door and pushing it open with a little shove.

The flat looked as it had a mere four hours before, but it felt completely different now. Before, she carried optimism with her, but now she was really doubting the reason she displayed such confidence in the first place.

John set off to the kitchen first, moving the remains of an experiment around as he poked through clutter looking for his notes.

"So, what did you need to talk to me about?" John asked in between huffs of disgust and disbelief over the state of Sherlock's living space.

"While he was away," Molly began.

"Playing dead," John cut in as a children's board game that had been sitting on some manilla folders, crashed to the floor.

"Yes, that," she replied in a small voice. "While he was off dismantling Moriarty's network, you and I had an interesting conversation about him over drinks."

"When I was utterly pissed that night at Mary's?" John asked with a smirk.

'"Yes, precisely that night." Obviously John wasn't going to be delicate over the situation. "You told me that Sherlock... had feelings for me."

John paused his shuffling –the heap of papers in front of him settling like the eery calm during the eye of a storm.

Molly tried jogging his memory more. "You were upset that he was always selfish and that he never, well, made a move on me. Not those exact words, but-"

"That he never gave you a good snog," John finished. "You twat!"

Molly looked taken back.

"Not you," John corrected quickly. "Me, I'm the idiot here!"

"So-" Molly tried to interject again, but couldn't finish, for John had moved out of the kitchen ad was rambling more to himself than Molly.

"You couldn't keep your mouth shut, John. Look what you've done. It was none of your business, but you had to stick your bloody opinion in there anyway."

"I'm guessing you don't approve then?" Molly looked up at John crestfallen.

John let out a strangled laugh and tilted his head to the side considering the statement. "Yes and no. I think you two would get along brilliantly considering how proficient you are with lying. But you know Sherlock just as well as I do and we are both aware that he isn't one for relationships. I'd worry that he was just using you if you were together.

Molly stood there thinking over John's words. Was she just a drug that Sherlock wanted to cure his boredom or did he view her as a person that expected the same amount of attention and love that the other received. Then a third option popped into her head. Did he care about her at all or had John been lying or misinformed that drunken night those months ago?

She turned back to John to clarify when she noticed he had already left and gone upstairs to his old room. She followed suit until she came to the half ajar door. There were only a few more places that these notes of his would be and John had to interest in looking though Sherlock's room or the bathroom in fear of what he might find.

"John," Molly stated confidently. He had been running a hand through his short hair with his other hand clinging to the side pocket of his jean's pocket. "I need to know the truth; or as much of the truth that you know before I go and make a fool of myself. Does Sherlock really like me like that?"

"Yes, most definitely," John answered.

Molly couldn't help but smile as she nodded her head up and down stiffly.

"But in truth Molly, I'd take that information as a grain of sand. He can be rather dense with human emotions and interactions and, well, he is still Sherlock regardless."

"I know," Molly said scraping at the loose paint on the door frame beside he. "I just have this feeling that he isn't that clueless. It's like he is too scared to act on anything. Or he doesn't want to. I just wish he could make up his mind. One minute he acts like a smitten teenage boy and the next minute he is completely oblivious and couldn't care less."

The sound of a buzzer broke the silence between the two causing both of them to jump back a bit. Molly and John looked between each other somehow asking the same nonverbal question of 'what was that?'

"Is someone at the door?" Molly asked John.

John shook his contemplating the source of the noise. "I didn't even think he had a buzzer for this place."

"Could it be the neighbors?" Molly suggested.

John grimaced. "I don't think so. Maybe it came from outside. We could check it out."

Just as Molly was about to agree, her phone vibrated once in her pocket letting her know that a text had come in.

"It's from Mike," Molly told John.

As if on cue, John's phone went off following Molly's text message.

"Hey Greg. What's up?"

"Body?" Molly mouthed.

John nodded his head. The two padded down the stairs with urgency as John continued his phone conversation with Greg.

When the two reached the first floor landing, John hung up the phone. "Greg can't seem to get a hold of Sherlock. He said his call went straight to voice mail..."

"Huh," Molly somewhat replied trying to remember if he had his phone on him earlier. Surely, they'd know if he was actually in trouble or just ignoring everybody on purpose.

"They've found a body underground by the tube. Lestrade wants you to call him if you find Sherlock. He says this case is a tricky one. I'll see you later I'm guessing," John stepped into a cab that had just pulled up. "Bye Molly."

**-Author's notes: Sherlock had returned home while John and Molly are upstairs, drunk. He blunders around the kitchen, finding the operation game him and his brother play, and on the floor of the kitchen, he sits down and practices all the while overhearing bits of Molly's conversation with John, only stopping to gravel in his own self loathing at the comments that float downstairs. **


	5. Chapter 5

It had been hours since she last saw John and her only company for the past little bit had been a Mr. Scott Hennisburg. Albeit deceased, he had kept her occupied; a condition she would prefer to be in currently, now that the autopsy was complete and the dreary dullness of the morgue, set in. Bored and still waiting for the elusive body from Lestrade's newest case, Molly washed her hands and went upstairs to the lab.

Upon entering, she spotted a station in the lab not cleaned up properly and set forth to pack up the microscope and clean the used tools. She was on her way back to the main room after depositing the abandoned lab materials in the autoclave when Sherlock entered through the other side door.

"Ah, Molly, you're here... What happened to my experiment?"

Molly fussed with the glove stuck on her right hand, avoiding Sherlock's question.

"I left it right here. Did you see anything?" Sherlock motioned to the now empty counter.

"Uh, yeah, sorry-about-that," she replied in haste. "I think John and Lestrade were looking for you actually. Is your phone off?"

Sherlock's gaze flickered between Molly and the empty counter piecing two and two together.

"Sherlock?" Molly waited for an answer, but her words simply could not breach his attention.

"Yes, yes. I heard. The phone –my phone is..." He appeared to be looking for something.

"Your phone is what Sherlock?" Molly questioned again, this time a bit peeved.

"Here," Sherlock said popping up from behind a counter on the opposite side of the room. "It seems to be out of charge though."

"Have you talked to Lestrade yet? He seemed quite overwhelmed when he called John earlier."

"No."

"Are you going to contact him? You can use my phone if you'd like."

"No, I think John can handle it... Actually yes, I would like your phone."

Sherlock briskly made his way over to Molly and snatched up the cellular device with neither a verbal thanks nor nod of appreciation.

"Who are you calling?" Molly asked impatiently.

Sherlock raised his index finger to his lips and waited for the other line to connect.

"Hi... yes of course it's me... it's dead I'm afraid... I left it here earlier and it ran out of charge... yes, this is Molly's phone... The lab, where else would I be... yes... yeah... ok, bye."

Molly waited with her hands on her hips as Sherlock hung up and handed the phone back to her.

"That was John," he quipped.

"Yeah, I gathered that," she said snatching it back and sliding the phone into her pocket.

"What's this new case about then?" He asked awkwardly.

Molly sat down on a stool across from him and shrugged. "You know just as much as I do now. It appears to be a hard one... well that's what Greg said."

Sherlock tilted his head to the side in confusion.

"Greg Lestrade," Molly supplied, a tad more annoyed due to Sherlock's inability to remember the name of a man he had known for years.

"Awh, yes. Well a puzzler for Lestrade can't be more than a 5."

Molly nodded.

"If it was more than a 7, media coverage would surely accompany the case. Well, that or my dear brother."

Molly did her best to smile, but it came out very grim. The consulting detective ambled about, obviously making small talk while he waited for John to join him. Molly wished there was somewhere else to be, but preferred stewing in frustration with the cause of said frustration over the gloomy morgue any day. She was leaning towards the counter on the stool's back two legs precariously, when Sherlock turned suddenly and stalked over, almost causing her to fall.

"Have I done something wrong?" Sherlock peered down at her while she gripped the counter to push herself upright.

Molly laughed, but it came out as nothing more than a strong gust of air. "Of course not, Sherlock. You can do no wrong."

He looked down at her skeptically and sighed dramatically. "I can't help you if you insist on being sarcastic," he scolded.

Molly was ready to leave the room, her job be damned, when her nose picked up a strong scent coming from Sherlock. "Have you been drinking?" She hopped down off the stool with her arms crossed in front of her.

Sherlock stepped back quickly and tried to discreetly smell his coat.

"It's not from your clothes, you idiot. It's on your breath. Please don't tell me you are back on drugs as well!" She shook her finger at him accusingly.

"No! No, I'm not on drugs. And I was drinking previously, but that was this afternoon. I'm not drunk anymore. I wouldn't come to the lab and handle tools if I was at all inebriated."

Molly looked taken back. "Oh, right. We were supposed to grab drinks earlier."

"But you walked off for no reason," Sherlock added in.

"For no reason!" Molly's temper flared up again after recalling their earlier conversation.

"What did I do?" Sherlock asked dejectedly.

"Never mind," Molly turned and walked towards the doors. Her fingers were wrapped around the handle, ready to leave, when she felt Sherlock's hand on her shoulder.

"I'm sorry," he said.

Molly was still turned away from him, taking her time to compose herself.

"You can't do that," she bit back. Her pony tail whipped around –wisps of hair clipping the underside of his chin. "You can't just apologize for nothing."

His eyes bore into hers and for a moment, her anger faltered. His proximity made her mouth go dry and she couldn't help but notice how sincere he looked. A whiff of the alcohol on his breath caught her attention again and she looked away annoyed.

"I'm not apologizing for nothing," he spoke softly as his hand ghosted over his chin where her hair had hit him.

She glanced back up at him and raised her eyebrows as if to say, _how so__? _

"Forgive me Molly, for being... me."

'For being me?' she thought. What kind of answer was that? For all the years that he manipulated her, surely he hadn't run out of excuses.

Her countenance betrayed her however, and her stern look lightened. History was repeating itself. As he leaned forward towards her, she couldn't help but sourly recall the last Christmas party she ever attended at Baker Street. She closed her eyes, anticipating the feel of the detectives lips against her cheek, when something entirely different happened.

His lips had somehow missed its target and instead collided with her own. In bewilderment her eyes shot open, coming face to face (literally) with his own lidded eyes. Was he kissing her? It felt like a peck at first, but then, very quickly she might add, it wasn't. His mouth was moving against hers and it took far longer than need be, for her to respond back. She noted momentarily that her mouth's dryness was no longer an issue. What was an issue, per-say, was what in god's name was happening. She opened her eyes again to make sure that her first glimpse was not a mirage. The image of his closed eyelids through a curl of hair confirmed that it wasn't, but she still wasn't all that certain with her own sanity.

Sherlock released a huff of air as he drew back briefly from her lips, before connecting with them once more. He was far less gentle this time –coming to the conclusion that teeth were an asset to kissing when his own enclosed upon Molly's upper lip and elicited from her, a hushed moan.

Molly, as well, found the word gentle, to be currently out of her repertoire. The logical side of her brain that should still be questioning what was transpiring here, was on mute. Her hands reached out, clinging to the tight fabric of Sherlock's Oxford button up. When the slick material just wouldn't do, her arms laced themselves around his torso, underneath his Belstaff coat, and pulled him against her. Sherlock was responding promptly to this action when his fingers snagged against a tangle in her hair (when had they gotten there?).

"Sorry," he whispered nimbly through muffled breaths before tilting his head the other way and latching back on.

Molly smiled against his lips, obviously amused by how many times he was apologizing to her that day, and pulled back.

Sherlock was reluctant to separate, but gave in at the sound of Molly laughing.

"I am at work, Sherlock," she reminded him. Her hand settled on his chest to keep him at bay and he regretfully obliged.

"I haven't finished my apology." He grinned down at her, pleased with his cheeky response.

Molly turned away, still not able to hide the blush that was spreading over her neck and face.

"For future reference Sherlock, you can't just kiss me whenever I'm mad at you."

Sherlock scoffed. "But I can kiss you any other time, can't I? The hero gets a few indulgences... Isn't that what you said earlier?"

"What who said earlier?" John asked as he came through the main doors.

Molly jumped away from Sherlock nearly hitting her arm against the countertop. "Has Lestrade brought the body in? I'm going to go down and see if the body is here yet," she said anxiously.

"He was in the car behind me on the way here so..." John replied before getting cut off.

"He should be here soon. Thanks John." Molly whisked by John on her way out, barely catching Sherlock's smug grin.

"She's in a hurry," John pointed out smiling.

Sherlock's grin vanished instantly. "Don't play innocent, John. You've been standing outside for at least a minute."

"Oh, much longer than that," John replied with a sly smile. The two friends eyed each other coyly before John continued. "How much of the conversation at your flat did _you _hear earlier?"

"What conversation?" Sherlock asked playing dumb.

"Oh, don't try and tell me that _t__he __Sherlock_ Holmes, figured this one out on his own."

Sherlock sneered. "Why couldn't I? I am highly skilled at deduction and human observation. It doesn't take a savant to know that Miss Hooper took a liking to me, either."

"Took a _liking_ to," John mocked. "I'm talking about human relationships, Sherlock. Something you quite lack in. It's as pointless to you as the bloody solar system if I remember correctly."

"It is pointless," Sherlock muttered to himself.

John smiled before sitting down across from Sherlock –waiting for the 36 year old baby to quit moping.

"Out of curiosity," John began. "What was that buzzing sound? Was that you?"

"Oh, yes, I was playing operation."

"The game? You were eavesdropping on Molly and I's conversation, at risk of getting caught, and you continued to play a child's game?"

"First of all," Sherlock retorted. "I was drunk. Second of all..."

John shook his head in disbelief. "Drunk at 2:30 in the afternoon. Okay, go on."

"Second of all," Sherlock raised his voice. "I was practicing."

John couldn't help but laugh.

"What!" Sherlock looked affronted. "It's a highly skillful game of dexterity and concentration. Besides, I must be at the top of my game before my dear brother of mine comes over again for a rematch. He is still rather unsettled over his last loss and I can't be caught slipping."


End file.
